


Silver

by honebami



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: M/M, Self Harm, Trans Saihara Shuuichi, implied minor spoilers ?, nb ouma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 04:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12005370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honebami/pseuds/honebami
Summary: Ouma wakes up.





	Silver

Blind-cut stripes of sunlight dashed across Ouma’s skin. They groaned and shut their eyes against the offending window’s glare. Blankets bunched around them as they twisted away and tightened their arms around their horse mask.

But their room didn't have a window. The planes of light didn’t drip over the frame of their whiteboard, nor their boxes and scattered sketches, but instead lit the shape of a messy desk, a chest of drawers adorned with clown dolls, and blurrily near them, a curve of navy hair in place of their mask.

They blinked their eyes hard and turned. Breathing slowly against their unbound chest, eyelashes dashed down and mouth agape, was Shuuichi Saihara. Ouma froze.

It wasn't as if Ouma hadn't snuck into Saihara's room before, to ferret their way through what scant belongings he had in some faint hope of proving their budding desires wrong; but even knowing that Saihara was trans as well, they'd never do so unbound. That was an intimacy reserved for the laughable lie of someone who could be close to them.

The room couldn’t be Saihara's, though, for the bedrooms all lay as twins, and there were no other rooms with beds in the school, much less with windows and clowns other than themself. But it was too raw for a dream: they'd dreamed of being in Saihara's arms before, a pattern of paint under their skin, but that didn't hold the weight of his arm around their hip, and in fantasy their body was as they pleased. 

Saihara stirred and slowly blinked up at them with soft eyes. "Kokichi...?"

Ouma slammed a hand against his face, kicked against him, and scrabbled out from the weight of the duvet. They held their hand over their mouth and bit down into the side of their finger as they ran from the room and down stairs to somewhere away from this mocking shadow of a wish that wasn't theirs. They slammed against the wall.

It hurt, but it didn't hurt enough. They moved from the hall to the kitchen and ripped open the drawers one by one. They scanned across curves of metal and plastic for something, anything, that would wake them up. They pulled a dull butter knife, the sharpest thing they found, from the last drawer that hung open.

A firm grip clasped around their wrist. “Kokichi, calm down." Saihara pulled the hand holding the knife away from their bared skin. "Please. Look at me."

A line of sweat dripped along his bang and down his chin. His breath came in pants, and his eyes were scrunched as he stared back at Kokichi. There was something in his skin, in his voice, that wasn't quite right; a little taller, a little deeper. Ouma pulled Saihara's hand down with them as they set the knife onto the kitchen counter without breaking their stare. "I'm looking." They'd intended it to come out a bit higher, a bit more teasing than that. "Where are we? And what do you think you’re doing? If I didn’t like you so much, I’d have you sent across the sea for trying to cuddle me!"

The sigh that fell from Saihara's mouth made Ouma want to bolt. "Kokichi, we're at home. And I'm trying to stop you from being self destructive." Saihara let go of Ouma's wrist and slid his fingers down their hand. "You're the one who insisted on getting rid of the sharp knives. Neither of us were going to cut again."

Their gaze flashed from Saihara's searching touch, to the sticky notes peppering the cupboards, to the doodlings strewn across the table, to the unbarred greenery outside. "You're pretty bold all of a sudden." Their laugh caught in their throat. "What happened to Ouma? Who do you think you are, huh?"

Saihara held Ouma's hand up to their vision. A ring laced across their finger. "Kokichi. We're married. Your name isn't Ouma anymore."

Ouma- no, Kokichi- felt fingers press inside their throat. The gleam of silver blurred hot through Kokichi Saihara’s eyes.


End file.
